for lent i promised to give up thoughts of the future
Passed that German test against all expectation. O, I still don't know about any of this; often I feel like the ideal position would be to read books and never have to talk about them—communicative reason is so much work and misfires so easily. But in this sphere, discursive analysis is the tax you have to pay on aesthetic pleasure. I wonder sometimes if it's bad faith to be doing this when I never really wanted to become a professor. Maybe taking a real job would not have been such a terrible thing. If I had played my cards differently, I could own a house by now. I would read books at night, I suppose, and privately love them.
This book I'm writing was meant to be the spaceship that bears me out of this.
